


an invitation you can't decline

by longteeth



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Begging, Cunnilingus, Desperation, F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Oral Sex, PWP without Porn, Pegging, love to switch it up, post h3, some fluff too bc my last porno was angsty so, truly the duality of man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 12:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30105894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longteeth/pseuds/longteeth
Summary: After receiving an unusual gift from 47, Diana decides that the two are going to try something new...
Relationships: Agent 47/Diana Burnwood
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	an invitation you can't decline

**Author's Note:**

> massive thank you to bourbonpowered for beta reading!! <333
> 
> this ship needs more pegging fics, so here, finally :DD

She drums her fingers against the kitchen counter, impatiently. It’s still early, and 47’s not meant to arrive until half an hour later, but she wants to be ready. If her calculations are correct, (and when haven’t they been?) he should be getting off the A25 about now, driving into Burnwood Manor soon enough, punctually, as always.

She has everything prepared for his arrival. It’s been just over three weeks since they had last seen each other face-to-face, and that will simply not do. They’re a team now, and the flawless handler she is, she knows that what they both desperately need right now is the master bedroom to themselves. Normally they don’t prepare much beforehand – the sex comes naturally when the last 23 years have been foreplay – but tonight will be different, she hums in anticipation.

A week ago, a small package was delivered to her apartment in London, seemingly inconspicuous, wrapped in glossy black paper under the brown envelope. She considered the odds of it being some kind of explosive, but the pretty script spelling out her name could only belong to one stoic assassin. After having carefully unwrapped the parcel, her cheeks grew hot at the thin black fabric inside. It was a pretty babydoll dress, with intricate lacing around the chest, long straps that were sure to reveal scandalous inches of skin, and a silky ribbon tied below the breasts. There was a slit down the middle, rendering the garment a very poor attempt at covering anything at all, though that was clearly the intention. The set came complete with a thong, in the same semi-lacy mesh. She couldn’t say she was shocked to receive a gift from 47 – it wasn’t exactly uncommon for her to find the occasional pair of earrings or bouquet at her current location. It  _ was _ new to see him take the initiative – to offer such a bold invitation disguised as a gift. Intrigued, she decided that the next time they would meet would have to be special.

Cruel time isn’t working in her favour, and she pulls the robe tighter around herself. Right now, she wishes he wasn’t so goddamn punctual, wishes that he’d run in early and desperate and barely catching his breath from the overwhelming desire and eagerness alone, like a scene from an awful movie.  _ No _ , she takes a deep breath. She’s waited years for him before, can manage this; the comparison is laughable. Painful minutes pass by as she inspects her manicure and ticks off her mental checklist, going through the plans for the night – drinks, kisses, then off to the bedroom. Everything always flowed so naturally before, but  _ this _ has to be planned. They had discussed the idea before, and though it wasn’t immediate excitement, 47 seemed intrigued. She recalls his exact words with a chuckle – “I _ have _ heard it can be pleasurable, Diana. The prostate gland has many nerve endings.” Tonight, she will return the favour of his perfect thrusts to the best of her abilities, leave him tired and overwhelmed and well-fucked. She has to stop herself from obnoxiously giggling at the thought, and prays her blush is not too obvious.

There’s a knock at the door, and she feels a familiar warmth just at the sound. As she rises, her robe hits the floor glamorously, flowing after her impatient strides. The door practically opens itself now, and the wind and the sky and the clouds are all gone, blocked out by the tall figure before her. She can’t help but feel awfully underdressed now, chest covered in goosebumps from standing in the doorway, while he’s wrapped under layers of thick, tailored tweed.

“Hello, 47,” she greets, and she can feel his eyes on her, basks in his silent praise. She steps aside to let him in and shuts the door. It’s hard to keep her breath in check around him, but even now she can’t come off too eager; needs him to be the one begging.

“It’s good to see you again, Diana,” there’s his equivalent of a smile – a minute upturn of lips, though it’s more prominent in the eyes, something of a glint, faint wrinkles framing the masterpiece.

She hums in response. She has to be careful with her words, he surely knows her intentions from the dressing gown, but she can’t reveal everything too early. Her mind races with what to say, but all the planning and formality seems stupid when he simply leans down and kisses her. His large hands cradle her face, like he knows she likes, and it lacks the uncertainty their first kiss held. His tongue explores her mouth with a sweet familiarity, with his own desire, it’s warm and human and perfect and she feels herself melting against him, hands fiddling with the collar of his coat.  _ Burberry _ , she thinks, and makes a mental note to ask him later. Right now, she takes it off for him, hangs it on the back of a stool.

“I’ve missed you,” she admits. It seems he’s planned for a special night too, or maybe not, maybe he’s just decided on it upon seeing her like this, but his eyes are searching hers for something, there’s that deadly hunger that she associates with her legs giving out. She doesn’t wait for his answer, takes his hand in hers, leads him to the living room, pushes him down onto the sofa as her heart pounds in her throat.

She considers putting on a show for him, taking her time undressing and giving him something to remember the next time they’re apart - though the thought makes her skin crawl, she needs him here, within her reach, forever – but no, he’s here, and she’s waited too long for his arrival, can’t stretch the wait out any longer, needs to touch him  _ now _ .

Her silk robe falls to the floor in one swift movement, piles at her feet elegantly, and the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the sight of his gift on her brings a smile to her face. The dress does fit her well, leaves little to the imagination, so much precious, exposed skin that he seems overwhelmed by where to look.

“I’ve always thought you had excellent taste, 47, but this,” she pauses to lean down, twists his face with a slender hand so she can whisper in his ear, graze soft skin with her teeth, “it’s really excellent. Thank you.” He shivers in response, studies her as she pulls back.

“You look very pretty, Diana,” he runs his eyes down her figure, “it suits you.” He reaches out to touch her, but she clicks her tongue at the gesture, placing a manicured hand on his shoulder.

“Not yet, my love,” she straddles him, appreciates his slight grunt at the contact, “so hard for me already? I almost pity you,” she runs her hands up his chest, cups his face gently, starts to kiss his cheeks and jaw. She sighs against his neck, continuing her onslaught – she’s missed this the most, probably, the tenderness, being able to touch him like he really deserves, showering him with the love and praise he has more than earned. He’s so close, smells so good, that killer, expensive cologne, and she wonders if he can feel how wet she is through his trousers. She deliberately avoids his growing arousal, and feels him struggle, caresses his back, shoulders, never tires of his lips against hers, holds his head by her bosom, bites at his ear, teases and touches and whispers and watches him grow frustrated with desire.

“Diana, please,” he groans, “let me touch you,” ideally she would toy with him for a bit longer, wait until he’s really desperate, but 47 rarely speaks unless he has something important to contribute. This must be killing him.

“I’m tempted to say yes, you know,” she whispers against his cheek, her hands clasped behind his neck, “but I’m afraid I need you to stay still for just a little while longer,” she sits before him, knees colliding with the plush carpet below, “I’ll make it quick, I promise.”

She unclasps his belt, pulls his trousers down with swift, familiar precision, practically shivering with anticipation. Gently, she palms him through his underwear, evoking gorgeous prayers and shattered gasps – he’s certainly working his way up to moaning her name later, and she can’t help but smile at the thought. She starts to trace a pattern against the outline of his dick, along his pelvic lines, and gets an idea at the sight of him so wrecked, still in his shirt and tie, needy and hard.

“I want you to touch yourself for me, 47,” she meets his gaze, placing a hand on his thigh. A faint blush creeps onto his cheeks. Sensing his hesitation, she reaches for his hand, “can you do that?”

He gulps, but nods, quickly pulling his underwear off. It is hard to pick a favourite body part of his, but his penis is truly a work of art. Ort-Meyer was evil in every sense of the word, deserved nothing for what he had put 47 through, but she had to give credit where credit was due - he had created a fine specimen.

Obediently, he touches himself, strokes along the shaft and runs his thumb across the slit at the top, rubbing precum along his cock. He’s beautiful like this, she thinks, his head back, as his chest rises rapidly and he pumps himself closer and closer to orgasm, cursing uncharacteristically. It’s always been a fantasy of hers to watch him touch himself, and she wonders now if he’s just as shy when he’s alone – whether he avoids this unless absolutely necessary, or if he secretly indulges whenever the moment is right. He moans and sighs and stutters broken prayers, and she decides he’s too close now, needs him to come with her inside him, so she takes his hand in hers. He whines in grievance.

“Diana-”

“I can’t have you finishing just yet.” She sits atop his firm thighs again, and his hands automatically reach for her sides. She doesn’t stop him, even leans into his touch. “Do you remember when we talked about me fucking you, 47? With my fingers, maybe a strap-on?”

His face turns red.

“Yes.”

“Well, I have everything prepared upstairs,” she strokes his shoulder, his previously crisp white shirt is now stuck to him with sweat. “That is, if you’re still interested.”

“Always interested,” he manages, and when they’re making their way up the grand staircase, she curses that her bedroom is too far away, feeling her thighs become increasingly slick with her own arousal.

The room is all ivory and dark wood. The bed is the centrepiece, naturally, massive and commanding, facing a large marble fireplace. There’s a crystal chandelier with gold accents, and thick, crisp, beige curtains, and an expensive white carpet, but none of it is impressive right now, her eyes are focused only on him. She removes his shirt and tie in two, nimble movements, and takes in the sight before her. There’s a kind of pity for her past self, some anonymous red-haired woman fucking men who could never compare to 47’s beauty, men who fell embarrassingly short in  _ every  _ department. The sweet, clammy, scar-littered skin before her is something out of a painting, so willing and eager and ready for her exploration. Her hands are drawn to him almost out of instinct as she runs her palms across the subtle peaks and valleys of his thick muscles, kissing and sucking at his neck until he’s moaning again.

“Could you lie down for me?” He knows it’s not really a question, and makes his way to the thick sheets, lays down against a large pillow. “We’ll take it slow at first – give you some time to adjust,” she straddles him again, strokes his cheek, his tie wrapped around her other hand, “hands above your head, my dear,” she smiles as he obeys. Skilfully, she ties the red fabric around his wrists, recalling the knot in her head - two loops pulled through each other. It’s not tight, just enough slack to keep him desperate and begging, though they both know he could easily get out of it. She leans down to claim his lips again, “is this ok?”

He nods, and spreads his legs, an invitation for more. Leaning over to the bedside table, she squeezes a generous amount of lube onto her index finger and kneels between his legs. There is never a time he is unattractive, so none of it comes as a shock to her, but seeing him laid out so crudely, legs apart and bent at the knee, hands tied above his head, his cock hard and his asshole presented before her so indecently, as though he was carved from marble for her eyes only is a sight she knows she needs ingrained into her brain permanently.

Torturously slow, she starts to massage his inner thighs, rubbing a finger over his hole occasionally, trying to prepare him for the sensation of something inside him. It looks so empty like this, she smirks, as though it was designed for her to fuck, to bring him pleasure he couldn’t even begin to conceive.

“If you want me to stop at any point-”

“No,” she raises an eyebrow at his protest, “no, Diana, please just,” he’s panting, her heart beats faster as she notices how heavy his breathing is, when she has barely begun her teasing, never even held his pretty cock properly.

“Just what?”

He looks down, unable to articulate his desires, likely from previous years of shameful confusion. She shakes her head, stroking his knee as she formulates the offer in her head.

“Would you like my fingers inside you now, 47?” She murmurs against his thigh, and he nods profusely.

There is a certain beauty to seeing her finger slide into him slowly, lathering his insides with lube. The overwhelmed moan he releases at just the first half of her digit brings a brilliant redness to her face. She wonders how much of his noises are genuine, since he knows that she likes it when he’s so responsive and vocal for her. She’ll guarantee their authenticity later, when she’ll be thrusting into him – there is no faking anything, then. She slides the finger further, slowly, eyes on him at all times for any signs of discomfort – it’s not like he’s going to show any, but he’s been put through utter hell by others before, and she doesn’t need to add unpleasant anal to the list.

She curls her finger upwards slightly, she knows she can’t quite hit the spot from this angle, her finger doesn’t reach, but it’s close, and his breath hitches. It’s smooth now, he’s adjusted to her inside him, and his hips thrust against her finger clumsily, searching for that sweet relief inside. She sighs, overwhelmed by the sight of him shuddering with pleasure like this.

“And a second,” she mutters, pressing another finger into him with a hefty dollop of lube, and his jaw goes slack as he releases the most filthy, pornographic moan. It’s lovely,  _ he’s _ lovely, and his tight hole feels so good against her fingers as she works him open, prepares him for the grand finale. “Such a pretty boy,” she purrs, and he chokes out a sigh. “Do you like this?” His hands shake under the red tie, and she watches as he struggles to make any kind of coherent sound. She leans down to face him, removes her fingers, eliciting a needy gasp. “Do you want me to fuck you, 47?” She cradles his face, the warm sticky lubricant painting his right cheekbone. “Speak to me, love, what do you want me to do?”

His eyes are now burning into her as though his life depends on her fucking him, like she has caused him genuine pain by extracting her fingers. He’s ruled by that beautiful desperation that she adores – it won’t be long until he’s whining obscenities for her, and she is reminded of the ache between her legs at the thought.

“Fuck me, Diana,” she lights up instantly at his response, though the words sound somewhat unnatural from him, as though read off a script, still his voice is deep and genuine and breathy with lust, “like you talked about,  _ please _ .”

She hums gladly against his lips, kisses him, and rises from the bed, her legs wobbling somewhat as her feet adjust to the hard floor beneath. Her black nightdress and thong fall to the floor – this’ll be more fun nude. She leans down to the lowest drawer in her nightstand, smirking at the sight of the beautiful inches of medical-grade silicone.

Adjusting the straps of her harness in the mirror, she appreciates her choice. The dildo is large, bigger than she knows is appropriate for someone’s first time, but she knows better than to underestimate him – besides, it’d be insulting to use anything smaller than his, and that leaves his first time quite the challenge. She watches him as she liberally applies another handful of lube to the dildo. His legs shake seemingly by their own accord, he observes her, starved of her contact already, hips thrusting gently, aimlessly into the air.

“God, you look so hot like this, 47,” she admits, and admires the way he’s panting, the way the muscles of his chest twist as he tries to stay still for her, to stop fighting the silk around his wrists. His face is fully crimson now, either with arousal or embarrassment, though pretty either way, she thinks.

When she climbs up between his legs again, she instructs for him to lift them into the air and holds his hips to steady herself. After some careful massaging, quiet whispers, and a groan so pained from desire that she simply cannot tease him any longer, she enters him with vigilant precision and bated breath. The diameter is only slightly larger than that of her fingers, but those few millimetres can make a world of a difference here, evident in his volume – she wonders what her cleaning staff will think, to hear the mysterious, intimidating visitor make such noises.

“Please,” he whines, though with another thrust his face quickly contours back into pleasure, he struggles against his binds, “may I touch you now?”

She doesn’t have to consider it much, the idea of his hands on her is always greatly appealing. She hums in approval, and he swiftly undoes her careful knot. Almost immediately, he reaches out to her sides, strokes along her ribs and tries for her breasts with his thumbs, hands caressing her with the sweetest conflict of tender apprehension and unrestricted thirst. She thinks neither of them will last long with the way the dildo presses up against her clit, and all of his lovely, crude noises. Currently, she wishes she had 47’s stamina, as it’s hard to truly emulate his brilliance without it – there comes a point where she worries sheer enthusiasm isn’t enough.

He takes her well though, and with his cock so hard and red that it looks painful, she takes pity on him, and finally,  _ finally  _ presses up against that precious, particular spot properly, as his eyes roll back and he’s unable to do anything other than choke out fragmented groans. She pumps into him, leans down to hold his face again, kisses his lips in between his pretty moans, because he’s perfect for her like this, and to see him in this absolute bliss is an honour.

She pulls away slightly, skin cold from the sudden lack of contact, and reaches for his prick, strokes him as she continues to thrust, though his eager hips are doing most of the work at this point, fucking himself against her desperately. He groans,  _ he’s close _ , and so when he comes she pulls out to taste him, fondly curling her tongue around the pink head of his cock, his hands tear at the sheets below, shaking through his orgasm, as she wrings out gorgeous ropes of cum, revels in the feeling of his lust down her throat. It’s like his orgasm lasts an eternity, with trembling hips and breathless, tired sighs. She watches with admiration as his back arches and his chest heaves, he’s perfect, really, looks like the culmination of all of her greatest fantasies like this, and she wishes she could make him come all over again and again infinitely, because he deserves it, looks so beautiful like this.

“That- was good, Diana,” he manages, the words punctuated by shattered gasps as his heart rate drops back to normal, “really good,” he corrects himself, lifting himself up by the elbows, “thank you,” she chuckles.

“You’ve been so good for me, my love,” she coos in his ear, keeping her vowels mellow in that rich way he likes. He gives a weak groan, always one for her praise, but his face slowly melts into confusion.

“Diana, you didn’t get to-”

“Oh, always so selfless, aren’t you?” She collapses upon him, stroking his bald head, “whatever have I done to deserve you, hm?” she huffs against his chest, the words muffled by her breathlessness and keen mouth leaving kisses wherever she can reach, “although if you’re so eager to return the favour, I’m sure we can figure something out.”

She mounts his face, rubs her dripping cunt on him as he eagerly eats her out, his tongue lapping up her juices perfectly, always hungry for more, as though her cum were the last drop of relief in a desert, and no amount would ever be enough because of his unquenchable thirst, because whatever came after this would simply never compare to the satisfaction of tasting her. He’s confident now, caressing her thighs as she rides his face, the mounds of tongue, nose, lips all melting into one fantastical feature, when they’re all wet and lovely and unrecognisable below, until –  _ oh _ , that must be his tongue, curled inside her like that, and this time she is the one moaning and keening and pleading for more, spilling out a lifetime’s worth of praise and encouragement.

She sleeps by his chest, nestled in the crook of his neck, and wrapped in the warmth of his arms, where she would be happy to spend the rest of her life. They kiss and stroke and murmur everything they already know, just because it feels so good to say it after so many years of denial, to hear their decade-long suspicions confirmed, even if they’ve already risked their lives for each other countless times and there is nothing either of them could do or say to change their special bond.

**Author's Note:**

> in bourbon's excellent words: hitman is a game about "being sexy, loving your wife, and taking her strap"


End file.
